


Sherlock's Return

by Melody_F_Dean



Series: Not That Much Of A Sociopath [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Rejection, Self-Harm, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Torture, lack of empathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-08 22:58:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11091684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melody_F_Dean/pseuds/Melody_F_Dean
Summary: I realise I've changed the order of events from how they appear in the show, I just felt like the timeline ran a bit better this way. It helped to develop Sherlock's emotional state at the moment too.The last few paragraphs contain scenes of self-harm. If you are uncomfortable at all with that, please don't read them! They contain my own flawed logic I used to have about self-harm and don't discourage it. Please be aware, you have been warned!





	1. Chapter 1

**_"It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_ **

Present tense. Not the deduction john. The fall is a trick. Do keep up, John.

**_"This phone call. It's my note."_**

STOP BEING SLOW, JOHN. WAKE UP AND REALISE. YOU'RE THE EXCEPTION. TO SO SO MUCH.

 

* * *

 

The torturer circled Sherlock.  Half the time he couldn't even translate what the Serbian was shouting at him, he was just so exhausted. Pain shot through his ribs as another punch made contact. He realised he had been talking at him for quite a while now.

"You remember sleep?" Yes. He missed it. Before this Sherlock hadn't put much stock in sleep. He would work constantly until he let himself pass out for a few hours, just to get up and do it all over again. Being knocked unconscious was the only rest Sherlock really got, and that wasn't exactly ideal. He didn't know exactly how long he had been tied up. Long enough for the lack of sleep to be a problem. That could have just been a matter of days. Long enough for the torturer to trust his deductions without feeling the need to question anymore. Not everyone trusted as quickly as John did, and even he questioned at first.  A week and a half was looking more likely now. His scars had started to heal. Not the thin deep ones, they were still pretty bad, but the large, inaccurate ones, where he had been hit large blunt objects, they were starting to heal. At least four weeks then. He had no way of actually knowing.

Sherlock could still feel every cut he had. Every injury. Even in his sleep deprived state he couldn't help but slowly make deductions. He didn't need to look at his torturer to be able 'tell him what he knew'. His torturer's fury grew quickly and he stormed out of the room, without a second glance to his superior officer. He was talking to Sherlock now. He didn't even bother trying to listen, blurring out the sound while taking a quick inventory of his new injuries of the day. Three large grazes, middle left. Two weren't deep, would heal quickly, but the third was going to take longer. Further down, two of his ribs were broken on the right. Three on the left. No punctured longs it seemed like though. That was a bit of luck.  A few cuts from a wire split into ...two...three...four. Patterns of four were covering his skin. He couldn't see them, but they felt shallow. Eight new single streaks from a whip. He couldn't be sure but he thought they were probably the same as the previous ones on his legs, sides and arms. They hadn't started to heal yet. They were too deep to properly heal, breaking open again every time he had moved. At least he wasn't bleeding from the old cuts anymore.

He hadn't noticed the officer getting closer. Hadn't taken any notice of him until he felt someone pulling his hair.

 "Now, listen to me." Sherlock's whole body froze, but only for a second. Help had come. He couldn't bring himself to react to Mycroft's presence anymore than that. Of course he didn't listen. He never listened to his big brother. not really. But especially this time. Help had come, but not soon enough. 

As Mycroft finished talking, Sherlock allowed himself one, small smile while letting his eyes relax. Soon he would be out.

 

* * *

 

 It took three hours for the plane to get back on British soil, and Sherlock slept through all of it. He didn't have a choice. And it was no where near enough. But he would fix that later. Mycroft hadn't tried to wake to him while he was out. He was prattling on now, though, as Sherlock was cleaned, treated, and groomed. He gave the bare minimum of answers when required. Mycroft paused.

"Anyway. You're safe now." Sherlock gave a small noise of acknowledgement, unwanted memories flashing through his head. Mycroft's expression darkened. "A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."

"What for?"

"For wading in. In case you've forgotten, field work is not my natural milieu." He knew it was going to hurt to try, but at this, Sherlock felt the need to sit up. Pain shot through him as he pushed himself to look into his brothers eyes, fury building. 

"Wading in? You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp" He and Mycroft had never seen eye to eye. This was one of those times. He had worked out by now that Mycroft had been present for a great deal of the sessions. And the sessions had gone on for longer then he had originally thought.

"I got you out."

"No, I got me out." Sherlock stopped listening after this point again. It seemed his brother was looking for some congratulations for his conduct. As if his final action had cancelled out all the weeks he had sat back and watched. Enjoyed his pain. Again the memories bubbled up into Sherlock's mind. He fought against the dizzying wave of emotion- or maybe lack of, he wasn't quite sure- threatening to crash down on him. He tried to pull his mind back, only to discover that Mycroft was still talking.

 "... undercover. Smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise, the people!" He wasn't going to be able to get through to him. There was no way Mycroft was going to understand what he had been through. Not just in the past eight weeks, but for the whole of the two years he had been away. God, how he missed john. He mentally kicked himself for not giving John enough credit for his skills in empathy. He lay himself back down, fighting the pain and sorrow now attacking him, looking for something else to cling on to.

"I didn't know you spoke Serbian." That was enough to get Mycroft going again. You can count on a Holmes boy to use up the last of the oxygen on the planet proving that they are clever. Sherlock let him continue, adding to the 'conversation' where necessary, but otherwise trying to ignore the rest of the world. Just then the door opened behind him and in walked Anthea, holding one of Sherlock's suits. His heart beat faster as joy spread through him, a feeling which he had long forgotten about. It finally hit him that the worst was over.

* * *

 

"What do you think of this shirt?"

"Sherlock-"

"I will find your underground terror cell , Mycroft. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in. Feel every quiver of it's beating heart," Sherlock replied. Mycroft had always been quick to panic. It was nice to know he still had the ability to make his brother do that. In those moments it almost felt like a normal sibling relationship. This time, it was Anthea who replied.

"One of our men died getting this information." She was obviously not amused by Sherlock's lack of concern. He looked her over. He had touched a nerve. Was she close to him then? How close? It was safe to assume that Mycroft hadn't intervened with the torture until he had this information, it wasn't Mycroft's way to do it sooner, so the death was fresh. Fresh enough for her to still be angry over, but not for her to be distraught. Couldn't have been a boyfriend or a relative then, must have been a close friend. Closer than most that she worked with. Her emotions served only to once again remind Sherlock that caring is not an advantage. Caring.

"And what about John Watson?" he asked. He hoped that Mycroft wouldn't notice how carefully he had avoided the subject of his best friend the whole seven hours he had been with him. 

"John?"

"Have you seen him?"

"Oh yes we meet up every Friday for fish and chips." Sherlock could never find the right words to express just how annoying Mycroft could be, but this snippet of conversation was a good way to explain to people, he felt. Luckily, he didn't tease for long. A file was handed to Sherlock. Opening the page, he saw a picture of John with... What was that?? No. No.

"..no," He said, not being able to take his eyes off the moustache. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that.He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wondering around with an old man." He dropped the file on to the desk and continued to get ready. Of course, everything to have stayed the same, but he was hoping the change would be smaller. Maybe he would have just started eating bourbons instead of jaffa cakes. But this was too much.

"I think I'll surprise John. He'll be delighted." Sherlock smiled to himself thinking of all the ways he could do so. Bump into him 'randomly' on the street, knock on the door with a pizza, buy milk and leave it in the fridge for him to find, maybe even jump out of a cake at Baker Street. Okay, maybe not the last one, that was a little ridiculous.

"Baker street?" He hadn't realised he had been musing out loud, but more than anything Mycroft's tone caught him off guard. "He isn't there any more." Sherlock couldn't find the words he needed at that moment. It was so unlike him to be speechless. He hoped his expression with enough to make Mycroft continue.

"Why would he be? It's been two years." Of course, why hadn't Sherlock factored that in? "He's got on with his life." At this, he actually snorted.

"What life? I've been away." There was a strange look of pity on Mycroft's face that Sherlock couldn't quite place. But this wan't the time to work it out. He was too close to John now to think of anything else.

"Where's he going to be tonight?"

"How should I know?"

"You always know."

"He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road." That was enough. Mycroft continued, but Sherlock had to plan now. What would be the best way? 

"...I think maybe I'll just drop by"

 "You know, It is just possible that you might not be welcome." Another snort of derision escaped Sherlock's mouth

"No, there isn't." Only one part of his ensemble was not missing. He turned, ready to ask, when he heard the clicking of Anthea's heels coming down the corridor. A fond smile he didn't know he possessed until that moment spread across his face and he turned, letting her slide the belstaff over his shoulders.

"Welcome back Mr. Holmes."

* * *

 

It was three hours before Sherlock could go to surprise John. He already knew how he was going to do it, so there was nothing for him to distract himself from what had just happened a few hours previous. Sleep was out of the question. Countering emotions ripped through his body in such a way that he had never felt before, so he walked. There was nothing else to do. He had wanted to see John first, but he had to distract himself. Time to go and see Mrs Hudson.

He still had a key to Baker Street, so he let himself in. In hindsight, maybe he could have handles that better, but distracted and sleep deprived is not the best way to be when making decisions. The scream pierced through the room and he could do nothing but stare, frozen. These new feelings were going to take some getting used to. He quickly looked at his reflection in the glass of the door he was holding to to make sure the turmoil he was feeling wasn't showing on his face. It wasn't. Good.

It felt like hours and a great deal of tea before she had calmed down.

"You have no idea how it's been Sherlock," she babbled, giving him a run through of everything he had missed in the past two years. "Shame on you for leaving a woman of my age all alone! Of course, you're not all to blame about that. John could have kept coming round, but today has been the first time he's been round in ages. Not that I blame him, really, I get that you going was harder on him than anyone else, but it would have been nice not to have been left alone-"

"Wait. What?" 

"I'm just saying, that it was very inconsiderate of you to-"

"John was here? When?" 

"About an hour ago." Pure, unfiltered joy pumped through him.

"Oh, he has brilliant news. He's getting married!" Oh. There it went. Mrs Hudson was still prattling on. Describing everything she knew about John new love, no doubt. But Sherlock wasn't listening. Finally Mycroft's look of pity made sense. Of course he have moved on with his life. Just because Sherlock's would stop if he lost John, doesn't mean it would happen the other way round. No. He had to snap out of this. Be happy for his best friend. That's all they were. He was never his.

"Excuse me, Mrs Hudson. Thank you for the tea, but I have got other things to be doing. My apologies for going, I'll be back later tonight." Mrs Hudson gave a startled look at Sherlock's sudden change, but it was nothing new. It took her a couple of seconds to recompose herself.

"Well, yes, I expect you have other people to greet right now. Good luck Sherlock. And stay safe!" She called, as he was already heading out the door, having not waiting for her goodbyes.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise I've changed the order of events from how they appear in the show, I just felt like the timeline ran a bit better this way. It helped to develop Sherlock's emotional state at the moment too.
> 
> The last few paragraphs contain scenes of self-harm. If you are uncomfortable at all with that, please don't read them! They contain my own flawed logic I used to have about self-harm and don't discourage it. Please be aware, you have been warned!

 Sherlock left 221B  with an hour before He could see John.  He took a deep breath, cleared his head, and planned out a route. It would only take fifteen minutes. Damn. That would give him too much time to think. Mentally apologising, both to himself and to John,  He went to find Lestrade. This is not how he had planned. He would have liked to start his return by telling the person he was closest to that he was back, but it seems he would have to wait. He kicked himself for not asking Mycroft for where he was _right then._ Well, hindsight. He hoped he could have his mind back once he could have a proper sleep. With that he hailed a cab to get to the yard.

Sherlock looked at his watch. ten past five. Lestrade should be on the way to his car by now, unless he was staying late. He took the gamble, and headed down the ramp to the car park under the building. He could hear Lestrade walking along. He could still recognise Lestrade's walk. Good. A flicker of pride crossed him and left an echo of a smile on his lips as he slowly advanced, keeping to the shadows. It surprised him when Lestrade stopped, patting his pockets, looking for something. It was obviously not his keys, they were in his trouser pocket. He'd heard the unmistakable jingle near the start of this bizarre routine. 

Two things then happened that Sherlock found extremely embarrassing. First he leaned forward on the ledge in the middle of a pillar, upsetting a bottle someone had helpfully left there, causing the detective to look up quickly, searching for the source of the noise. He hoped against hope Lestrade wouldn't move from his spot and the seconds which followed were by and large painful for him to stand through. Silent relief filled him as Lestrade turned and continued his unusual actions. This is when the second embarrassment started. Sherlock was horrified to realise that he was _looking for a cigarette_. It should have been so obvious! He took a few seconds to berate his slowness before quietly moving forward. He didn't want to startle Lestrade by being to loud. He was licensed to carry a weapon, after all. He waited for the opportune moment. Just as he was about to light the cigarette.

"Those things will kill you." Pause. He watched as Lestrade slowly straightened up, probably, Sherlock surmised, assessing the scene before making any actions. The lighter clicked off.

"Oh, you bastard!" Sherlock smiled.

"It was time to come back," Sherlock uttered, sauntering forward. "You've been letting things slide, Graham."

"Greg."

"...Greg." Sherlock honestly thought, in the pause that followed, Lestrade was going to hit him. He was even more certain when his right arm swung round. Sure the aim was off, but it didn't stop him from being startled when he felt himself being pulled into a hug.

He allowed it, but this was honestly more uncomfortable that Mrs Hudson's scream. At least he knew how to make that one stop. It was another ten seconds before Lestrade let him go.

* * *

 

 "My god, Sherlock! It took two years for you to do all that?" Lestrade exclaimed. "And no one knew you were alive?"

"Well, I had some people who knew that. Nothing too specific though." Sherlock had to look away. Lestrade was looking at him with the biggest grin ever. As if his trip abroad had been terribly exciting. He hadn't gone into specifics, just the gist of tracking down and destroying Moriarty's web. Something must have shown on his face, because Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Still. Good to have you back." He went back to grinning and lightly punched his arm. "I bet John was pleased to see you, eh?" Sherlock visibly perked up when he heard mention of John.

"I-I haven't actually seen him yet. I'll be leaving in about 10 minutes to catch him actually." Sherlock looked into Lestrade's uncomprehending face, and explained further. "I didn't know where to find him, but I have some intel about-"

"You haven't seen him yet??" Sherlock flinched at the sudden anger.

"No, how could I have if I-"

"Sherlock, I cant believe you!" Lestrade proclaimed, anger bubbling though him. "He's your best friend! How have you not seen him yet?"

"I was trying to tell you-"

"He was completely destroyed by your death, Sherlock!" He was yelling right in his face now. Sherlock tried his best not disappear into himself.

"The amount of night I sat up with him, looking after him when he got too drunk to be able to function. Letting him cry on my shoulder when things got too much. I even had to lock his gun up. He was devastated Sherlock! And you haven't even bothered yet!" His tirade ended, and Sherlock did his very best to hold it together.New violent images singed themselves into his brain. Imaged of John drunk. Crying. Depressed. Images of John holding a gun to his head. _No, stop. Get it together._ He couldn't manged anything above a whisper in his quivering state.

"I didn't know. I didn't think... I'm sorry, Greg." Lestrade looked up in time to see the tail of Sherlock's coat disappear into the shadows.

As soon as he was out of sight and hearing he ran. As far as he could. Which, in his current state wasn't that far, but he had still managed to pass several roads before he had to stop. Breathing was extremely difficult. Not in an out-of-breath-from-running-way either. He found a quiet alley and crouched, trying to control hid breathing. The images still flashed in his mind. He realised he was crying.

 _I don't have enough facts. I can't let these images exist. There's nothing right now to make this definite_. He punched the walls several times, earning himself a few scratches, and found this helped him control the pain inside him a little better. He could really do with some cocaine. But he had to do this with a clear head.

It was another 3 minutes before he had control over himself again. He stood up by the side of the road and hailed a cab. It was time for him to go and see John.

* * *

 It took him less than a minute to pick up a disguise once he had entered the restaurant. He was actually quite pleased with it, if he did say so himself. He'd even drawn on a moustache and chuckled to himself about what John would say when he noticed. He headed over to the table he was sat at.

"Can I help you with anything sir?" He put on an accent that was so appalling, even John could have seen through it in a matter of seconds. But he didn't look up. He just went on about their drink selection. Disgruntled, Sherlock tried again to get his attention. After a while, He became more and more dramatic, hoping to catch John's attention, but he seemed adamant on ignoring everything but his own table. Right now, choosing champagne seemed to be his only focus. Fine.

"Can I recommend this one sir? It is familiar with but with a quality of surprise." Sherlock was practically jumping up and down by this point.

"Well, surprise me then."

"I am certainly endeavouring to, sir," huffed Sherlock. This was more difficult than he had originally planned. How could he be so narrow minded? They had lived together for so long, surely some of his own perception skills had rubbed off on him. He has no choice now but to go and get the champagne. He goes into the kitchen, quickly deducing where they keep drinks, and grabbed a random one. John wouldn't be able to tell the difference. He rushes out, eyes searching out his table and immediately stops. The sight of John sitting playing with an engagement ring made his stomach drop in a way that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He found himself needing to remind himself that he has no claim to John. Mycroft's pitying look. Mrs Hudson's excited babble. He turned and went back into the kitchen. 

Sherlock focused on his breathing for two minutes - although it seemed like hours - before he had control again. He had taken to harming himself after a few months of being on his own. It had helped him control the pain he was experiencing of loneliness. He hadn't felt that before John, but without him, he had felt empty. His hands clenched and the scars from the cuts and burns made themselves known. He hadn't expected to feel a craving to do this again now that he was back. Slowly he unclenched his fists and picked up the bottle for the surface to take to John. One last calming breath before he left the kitchen.

The mix of emotions would have seemed comical to Sherlock if the situation had been different. There was a woman sitting across from John, looking into his eyes in such a way one could only describe as 'dreamily'. The second thing he noticed was that the engagement box was no longer visible. It was enough to give Sherlock the courage he needed to stride over to their table and babble nonsense about the champagne at John until he was interrupted.

"No, sorry, not now, please." Still no looking up. He could see no other course of action other than to continue droning on until John was irritated enough to have to look him in the face. It took a surprisingly short amount of time. He interrupted Sherlock again, chuckling,

"No, look, seriously-" And that was it. He actually looked up. Slowly annoyance wore off into shock. He stumbled up.

"...John?" The woman asked, trying to get his attention. Sherlock was starting to feel like he had done this wrong. John fixed him with a look that stopped his heart for a millisecond.

"John, what is it?" she persisted. Sherlock took a beat before speaking.

"Well. Short version... Not dead." Both of them were now staring at him. 

"Bit mean to spring this on you like that, I know, but-" the look on John's face stopped him in his tracks. He froze. But it was neither of them who spoke next.

"Oh, no you're.."He turned his face slightly to the sound, but was not able to stop looking at John yet. 

"Oh, yes." John's stillness was starting to worry him now.

"Oh, my god!" Was he going into shock?

"Not quite." Was he having a heart attack?

"You died, you jumped off a roof." _I'm standing right here._

"No."

"You're dead." What did John see in this woman? Stating something over again that was obviously false.

"No, I'm quite sure, I checked." He looked down. "Excuse me." He dipped a napkin into water and wiped away the moustache he had drawn on. At the time it had seemed like it would be funny. He couldn't quite remember why now.

"Does-er-your's wipe off too?"He gave an awkward little laugh, before looking at John's face a little more clearly. The gravity was dawning on him.

"Okay, I'm starting to realise I might owe you some sort of an apology-" a slam on the table once again froze as he stared at John. He was smiling, but not in the way that makes you feel better. The way that scared everyone who looked at him. He was vaguely aware that the woman was trying to soothe John. Finally he spoke.

"Two years... Two years Sher..." His speech was stilted. He was struggling to get sentences out.

"You left. Everything. Me. You let me grieve. How? How could you do that?" Sherlock had not prepared for this question at all. He quickly sifted through all his mind could offer about how to deal with this situation. It was quickly becoming too much for him to handle. 

"Just, one question, John, before you do anything you'll regret." He paused, but no response came. He had to alleviate the pressure somehow. He started smiling and pointed at John's moustache.

"Are you really going to keep that?!" He chuckled and looked around. From the look on both their faces he could tell that maybe he had miscalculated the situati- Suddenly the wind was beaten out of him and pain shot through his back as he suddenly found himself on the floor, and angry John wrestling him.

* * *

 John stormed down the street, leaving Sherlock to stand, catching his breath, next to the woman as they watched him leave. She turned to him, her face blank, and extended.

"I'm Mary." Sherlock took her hand briefly.

"Sherlock."

"Yeah, I figured that out, thanks." He huffed irritably, turning back to where John was disappearing. His heart was sinking with every step.

"How could you possibly have thought that was a good idea? I though you were supposed to be clever!" He looked away from everything when he answered.

"Well, obviously I misjudged it all. I thought he would find it funny!"

"Maybe he would have before, I don't really know how he was before then, but he would have found this funny?" She shook her head. "You must have really destroyed him."

Sherlock's breath caught as the erroneous images that were conjured while speaking to Lestrade of John with a gun against his head once again danced across his mind. He didn't here John shout for Mary to hurry up. He didn't notice Mary leaving his side.

He shook his head to clear it and started up towards them. 

"John, please-" 

"No, I don't want to hear it, Sherlock." John was trying to get the attention of a taxi. "It doesn't matter anymore." It stung him so much to hear. John hadn't even clarified, but he had to be talking about their friendship. He had left it too late. The panic rose and he took a couple of seconds to push it back down. 

"John," he whispered, "please, just hear me out. I know I've done everything wrong and I am truly sorry." With that John slowly turned to face him, how own expression not yet rearranged to hide the shock he felt. Begrudgingly he answered. 

"Fine." Sherlock had never been so thrilled to hear that word. "But you only get a few minutes, so make it quick" 

It didn't take long to find a quiet Cafe they could all sit and talk in. Sherlock started immediately with an explanation of how he had survived but was quickly interrupted. 

"I don't want to know _how_ you did it, Sherlock, I want to know _why_." 

"Why?"  Was he not happy at all that he had survived? 

" Yes, why. You let me believe, for two years that you were gone. God, not even just me. Everyone thought you were gone. Hell, even Mycroft." John's expression changed to confusion as he saw the look on Sherlock's when he mentioned his brother. 

"That... That's not completely true..." he mumbled. 

"... What do you mean?"  he was hunched in such a way that looked as if he wanted the seat to swallow him right then and there, just so he wouldn't have to tell John. This wasn't going to end well. 

"Mycroft knew about me being-" 

" _What??_ " He flinched back, not looking at John and Mary was once again trying to calm him. He took a breath and then started again, his voice calmer. 

"So, let me get this straight. You- you jumped. You left. And you didn't let me know you were alive, but you did let someone know. What was the point then? Why even do that?"

"Oh well he would have needed a confidant," chipped in Mary. The look in John's face had her apologising almost immediately for her outburst. Now was not the time to get excited about how his best friend had survived. A pause followed as they all stared at each other.

"Who else?" Sherlock looked down at his hands.

"Only a few-"

"Who else, Sherlock?"

"Well, Molly Hooper, I needed her for the plan-"

"Not interested in that. Just want to know who."

"I talked to Mrs Hudson when I got back. Also Lestrade-" Suddenly he was on the floor again, an angry John punching him everywhere he could reach. Fortunately for Sherlock, given John's short stature and the table being between them, he didn't get far before staff intervened, and kicked them out of the cafe.

* * *

 John surprised Sherlock by grabbing him by the collar and dragging him along to a quiet takeaway place, with Mary in tow. They stood there, all ordering cans of coke so they could stand inside without getting kicked out. The silence stretched for five minutes. Once again, Sherlock was sensing the awkwardness and felt the need to lighten the situation.

"Seriously, you're keeping that?" He asked, motioning towards his top lip. For a split second he remembered that he had tried this before and it had failed so spectacularly. Sleep deprivation made you do such stupid thing. 

However, John was acting a lot calmer this time around. He cleared his throat before calmly answering.

"Yeah,well, Mary likes it."

"...No she doesn't."

"I- Yeah she does, she told me!" John laughed in derision, then looked over to Mary for confirmation. Her face was a little to innocent.

"Oh, well isn't this just wonderful," John spat. "You've here all of one hour and you're already up to your old trick. That's just brilliant." Sherlock looked down at his shoes, a dawning feeling that he had crossed some line.

"Just one word, Sherlock, just one word to tell me you were still alive is all I would have needed." The words spilled out of him as if he no longer had control over his mouth. 

"I almost called so many times, John, but-" He was cut off by John's quiet laughing. He couldn't help but be reminded of all the times people had laughed at him. He had never thought that John would be one of them. Immediately his defences went up. "Well, I couldn't be sure you would spill the beans," he finished, feigning nonchalance. Mary stared laughing. To be quite honest he had forgotten she was there. But the laugh didn't seem quite the same. Sherlock looked, and it seemed almost as if she knew that he was going to say something else but was shielding himself from John's verbal offence. Maybe she's not as stupid as he had originally deduced. 

"Oh, am I really the only one here who doesn't think this is funny? _None of this is funny_ , Sherlock!" Sherlock tried to agree but just found his words swallowed up by John's shouts.

"You went away, you faked your death-"

"Shh."

"-and now you come back in here with you 'oh, hi, I'm not actually dead'-"

"Shhh!"

"-and you just expect me to welcome you back with open arms? You've been gone for two bloody years- _will you stop shushing me!"_

"Shut up, John, I don't want everyone knowing that I'm still alive!"

"Oh so it's still a secret then, is it?"

"Yes, promise you won't tell anyone!"

"Swear to god!" John was still shouting, but Sherlock could tell that he was starting to calm down again. A smile crept on his face as he stared down at John, even though he wasn't meeting his eye.

He gave John a few seconds of silence to compose himself before bringing up the second objective for this meeting.

"John, I need your help." He looked so astonished at this Sherlock would have found it comical in a different context. John too, he imagined. 

"Really. What could you possibly need from me?" The words were biting more than Sherlock was expecting, but he continued anyway.

"There a terror threat putting London in imminent danger, John, I need to investigate and I can't do that alone, I need-" For the third time that night, John grabbed Sherlock, headbutting him.

* * *

 Sherlock sat on the bench outside the fish and chips, nursing his bleeding nose, Mary sitting next to him. John was just down the road trying to attract a cabby's attention.

"I don't understand, I said I'm sorry, isn't that what you're supposed to do?" Mary looked at him with a look of someone who was having an epiphany.

"My god, you really don't know anything about human nature, do you?" It didn't seem so much of a question, as a conformation of what she already knew. Sherlock found it both comforting and hopeful that John still talked about him.

"Not really, no," he smiled.

"It's alright," she said, smiling back. "I'll talk him round." Sherlock's mind froze for a second. He had definitely been wrong with his first deduction. He looked at her more carefully. She was very confident with what she was saying, and instantly want to help. John's girlfriends never wanted to help. He could see so much intelligence in her. Not as much as him, but still...

"Mary!" John called from down the street. He had found a cab. Mary smiled and gave a little wave, leaving Sherlock alone on the bench to watch as they entered the car and were driven away. He sat for a minute contemplating everything that had occurred during that reunion before slowly getting up. Walking home seemed the best option right now. He needed to be alone. Properly alone. There was too much of a chance that even the driver could try to talk to him if he went in a taxi. But it would take too long to get to Baker Street from here anyway. He set off towards the flat, walking slower than he normally would have done. The need for sleep had finally caught up with him as he  ambled along, but some other needs, that he hadn't felt in quite some time, started making themselves present too.

 

 

By the time Sherlock had gotten to the flat, his skin was crawling with the need for morphine. Either that or pain. Or maybe just sleep. But even that couldn't stop him deducing. It was obvious that, until some time earlier that day, no one had stepped foot in the apartment since he had gone. He wondered when John had moved out. Was it straight away? Was it when he started seeing Mary? He didn't really need the answers to these questions. He didn't care enough right now to look for them. So many memories were flooding in from all the time he and John had spent he that he was feeling quite overwhelmed, but also unable to move at this moment.It was starting to register that we was, in fact, in a considerable amount of pain. _Good_ , he thought, _that way I don't have to inflict my own_.He entered the bathroom and took of his coat and shirt, air instantly cooling around the cuts, the way it does when it hits liquid on the skin. He did his best to look at his wounds in the mirror, thankful that he had been wearing his coat all evening. If John had seen these injuries, he would have gone all doctor-mode, and he and Sherlock would never have gotten to discuss everything they had tonight.

Every time he closed his eyes memories would flash in his mind, so vivid that it felt like he was transported back to Serbia between each blink. But the sting of his wounds are helping ground him. The decision was made. He went too the kitchen and looked through his supplies. He wanted something that would burn, but not be too serious. He had had enough of being medically treated for one day, but there wasn't anything available. A knife it was then. He quickly calculated where the safest place would be. He didn't want to kill himself this time, he just needed some more pain to pull him back. His shoulders, he decided, would be the best idea. It was quite unlikely the cuts would be lethal there, and if they were to scar, they wouldn't look so out of place with the scars he already had on his back. He took the knife that was still wedged into the mantle piece as usual and pressed it hard against his skin. The bittersweet relief is instantaneous. 

After three cuts Sherlock feels his memories becoming more distant. He could feel himself be more in the moment. He sighed, content with the feeling. He could see this logic was flawed. That this wasn't going to help in the long term. But for right now it was extremely helpful. He went back into the bathroom, doing his best to treat his wounds, both the old and new. He had enough experience to know that keeping them clean wouldn't lessen the pain.

Once he had finished cleaning he put on a fresh cotton t-shirt. It would be too difficult to bandage all his wounds, but this could act like one. He drifted slowly towards his bed and lay down, letting the pain overtake everything else. He closed his eyes. No memories appeared in his mind. He smiled and let himself drift off.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Calculations for those interested 
> 
> Mycroft found it difficult to find him: had to take at least a week  
> rising through the ranks and forming bonds to get there: I'd say 4 weeks, even with money  
> Mycroft and torture are on friendly basis. There is no 'sir' and skipping work is fine, even in front of superior - will have taken at least 3 weeks to form that bond
> 
> **Around 8 weeks of torture before Sherlock was saved**
> 
> Flight from Serbia to London: about 3 hours  
> Time travelling to office, shaving, washing and dressing: lets go with 4 hours  
> Finding travelling to John: 3 hours is generous
> 
> **all in all he was out of torture about 10 hours before John was punching him**


End file.
